Page 84 of The Gaybor War

The annoying thing is that I actually mean it. Not the thinking part. The wanting to go part.

I stand in my kitchen for a long moment after leaving Benji's house, leftovers in one hand and a problem in the other.

The leftovers go in the fridge. The problem follows me.

Dinner should have settled something. Instead, it made everything clearer. I like being around him. Not in the abstract. Not in the theoretical way I've been dissecting for weeks.

I like sitting across from him while he talks about things he cares about. I like watching his face change when he's excited. I like learning things about him that have nothing to do with flamingos, HOA battles, or mutual irritation.

Somewhere along the way, Benji stopped being the disruption. He became the thing I look forward to. The realization should probably alarm me more than it does.

I lean against the counter and think about the convention. Not the crowds or the travel.

Him.

The way his expression softened when he talked about readers. The quiet pride he tried to hide behind jokes. The fact that when he invited me, it wasn't because he needed company.

It was because he wanted me there. That matters more than I'm prepared to unpack.

I push away from the counter and pace through the kitchen until I’m interrupted by my phone buzzing, scattering my thoughts.

I already know who it’s from. My body does that quiet, traitorous thing it does now—anticipates him before my brain catches up.

Benji: Important question.

I stare at the screen.

I'm afraid to ask.

Benji: That's fair.

Three dots appear again.

Benji: Are you coming with me?

Yes, I'll go to the convention with you.

This time the pause is longer. Long enough that I picture him smiling at his phone.

Benji: Good.

Another message follows immediately.

Benji: Oh! Almost forgot—after-signing party is themed. You’ll need a sexy pirate costume.

I stare at the screen.

A sexy pirate.

I just spent twenty minutes mentally negotiating sleeping arrangements, emotional boundaries, and the possibility that I am about to reorder my life around a man who owns a shed packed with plastic flamingos and a drawer full of jockstraps and thongs.

And now he wants me in a tricorn hat.

I type. Delete. Type again.

I don’t own a pirate costume.

It goes without saying that if I did, it certainly wouldn’t be sexy.